


You Were the Ocean

by waltzmatildah



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it always does come down to this; for them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [insomniabug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniabug/gifts).



__

(maybe you were the ocean, when I was just a stone…)

She slides onto the stool beside him,  
nudges her shoulder deliberately into his as she sits, 

sighs.

“Hiding in plain sight, _huh_?”

He ducks his head, looks over and up at her,  
through his lashes,  
offers her a shrug in reply.

“Detective Rosarti was looking for you when I left.”

He looks up properly at that but remains  
silent.

“I told her I didn’t know where you were.”

He raises his eyebrows

(and he’s all about the non-verbal communication at the moment,  
so it seems).

“Maybe I wanted this seat all to myself?”  
She answers his raised eyebrow version of a question mark in a round-about way that serves no purpose as an _actual_ answer.

Or,  
maybe,  
it is the truest answer of them all. She tries not to think too hard about her motivations when it comes to  
 _him_  
these days.

“I should warn you,” he says, and when he lifts his head she can see his eyes struggle to  
find focus,  
“I’ll probably fall in love with you before you’ve finished your first beer.”

( _Fuck_ )

“How much have you had?” she asks, dragging the sleeve of her jacket just high enough to see:

20:52

“And then,” he ignores her, “just as you’re about to leave, I’ll probably ask you to  
 _marry me_.

It is my MO, after all.”

He lifts the glass in his hand with concentrated purpose and a comical degree of determination.

Still manages to  
miss  
on the first attempt.

“Apparently.”

(she’d go with _fuck_ again,  
as an exclamation as well as a summation of the situation in general,  
but she’s pretty sure she’s already covered that part)

“Yeah, well,” she opts for instead, “I heard McNally asked _you_ to marry _her_ , not the other way round.”

And it’s not her most supportive moment, she’ll definitely  
agree  
with that.

His elbows slide forward through previously spilled beer and rings of watery condensation on the bar top. Forward, forward, forward til his  
stubbled chin  
is right there and resting in the pooled mess.

“Oh, Luke,” she says,  
(his name feels heavy on her tongue, and she remembers  
then,  
this is why she rarely uses it)

“That was...

_(uncalled for_  
not what I meant  
the truth,  
maybe,  
but still…) 

I’m sorry.”

 

 

She orders a tequila shot and a bottle of Moosehead to  
chase it with

( _excuse me, bartender_ , she uses her hands to say, _hold the lemon wedge_  
non-verbal communication is not just for the mute  
and morose  
after all).

“Gail,” he says. 

His eyes are closed, and he’s officially been cut-off, a printed receipt detailing his  
tab  
grows booze-soggy between the two of them.

“Gail,” he says again. An incongruous combination of  
Suggestive  
and  
Sad.

But…

“Oh, no…” she says. Because she will not be that girl for him

(at least,  
not tonight.

And,  
especially,  
not

like this…)

He says, “Oh, fuck.”

Which, yes.

 _Exactly_.

“Yeah, well,”  
She goes with a show of competitive one-upmanship in an attempt to  
diffuse  
the situation somewhat,  
(if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em  
or some other cheesy platitude)  
“until you’ve been left at the altar in a shady Vegas chapel, you ‘aint got nothin’ on me, Callaghan.”

The tequila hits her tonsils and she  
chokes  
gags  
loses all ability to inhale, exhale, inhale, breeeeathe.

And it’s little more than the perfect punctuation mark for that particular life event,  
to be quite honest.

“Okay, so,” he says, filled with purpose and a co-ordinated pointer finger all of a sudden. “Maybe I wasn’t exactly _left at the altar_ ,”

(and the loose quotation marks he slings around this part of his rebuttal are a nice touch, she thinks,  
nods)

“… but details, details, Constable Peck. It all amounts to the same thing in the end. A  
broken heart 

(pause, one beat, two…  
four, five, six  
eleven, twelve)

and a hangover.”

She laughs. Bitter.

They, the two of them, Peck and Callaghan, little more than  
legacies  
of their respective last names,  
they are not supposed to have  
hearts,

or so office gossip, version 2.0, would like to tell her.

“Gail,” he says again.

Still suggestive.  
Still achingly _sad_.

And her resolve  
slips  
on cue.

 _Not for the first time_ ,  
she thinks.  
“We can’t keep doing this,”  
she says.

He stands, steadier than he has any right to be.  
Loops his fingers tightly through hers and  
pulls.

She fumbles for her credit card and slides it in the direction of the busily glass-polishing bartender. “We’ll be back,” she says, means it.  
Repeats it.  
“We’ll be back in a  
minute.” 

 

 

It’s raining in the parking lot, hard, cold water falling from the  
perpetual grey cloud  
that hangs over their heads.

“Luke,” she says, her painted lips staining the side of his neck, red, “Luke, Luke, Luke, _Lukelukeluke…_ ”

And sometimes heavy is  
exactly  
what she’s looking for.

It’s dark. Not pitch, but  
not far off…

His hands shake

(anticipation  
desperation  
intoxication

 _cold_ )

as he manipulates buttons and zippers and buttons and buttons and buttons.

She wraps her fingers around his, then pins them,  
splayed,  
on either side of his head, his back against rough, wet brick as she kicks his feet apart to even the  
playing field  
somewhat.

He is responsive to her lead  
(the choreography for this particular waltz?  
Familiar…),  
finds her lips and her teeth and her tongue with _his_  
lips,  
teeth,  
tongue.

He tastes like salt. And  
rum

(and regret).

She pulls him away from the wall, pushes him flat on his back onto an (almost) empty packing crate.

Pulls, pushes. Pulls, pushes.  
Pulls.  
Pushes.

As she exhales, rain water bubbles on her lips, drips from the very tip of her nose. His jeans, just the right amount of  
 _low_  
Her skirt, just the right amount of  
 _high_.

(their underwear, just the right amount of  
 _no longer in the goddamn way…_ )

“Fuck,” he says. Or she says.  
Or no-one says.

The rain  
 _rains._

They move to the beat of it, the incessant roar of water on road,  
on roof  
on skin  
on water, on water, on water…

She’s got her hands pressed against his shoulders, holding him down even as he tries to sit up. She likes him  
better  
like this.

Beneath her.

Literally  
(not metaphorically, never  
metaphorically).

Literally, _beneath her_.  
And,  
 _inside of her_.

She can see him most clearly in these moments. Raw and rent open. Exposed in a way he’d never dare  
offer  
to anyone else.

And it always does come down to this in the end; for them,

(touch, and taste, and skin  
on skin  
on skin).

Non-verbal  
communication.


End file.
